


Seaside

by AClever_Username



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels can get sunburned, Crowley reaching a peak of soft disaster, English seaside-y floof, Fluff, Humour, I hope, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, hand-holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 18:38:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20314156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AClever_Username/pseuds/AClever_Username
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale take a trip down to the beach."He eyed Aziraphale’s hand around the book...Crowley had been holding that hand earlier. (And it had been wonderful)."





	Seaside

Crowley was spread-eagled in the water like a starfish, waves gently lapping at the rim of his glasses, the world a dull _whoosh_ in his ears.  
  
He'd checked with Aziraphale, and neither of them had performed a miracle on the weather, for the blinding heat of the sun. It was simply dumb luck.  
  
Or perhaps the miracle of Someone else, (and also a Somewhere and a Somewhen, and not a Somebody at all) who'd watched an angel and a demon head towards the beach and flicked a ray of sun their way.  
  
Crowley lifted his head, swirling one hand in the water, looking across to the sand.  
  
Aziraphale was settled in a deckchair that hadn't been there before they'd arrived, clad in a bathing suit straight off the front of a Victorian postcard, all striped the same red and white. Crowley had _almost_ expected a little white handkerchief, knotted at the corners, to appear too. He was very thankful when one didn't, but taken one look at the almost white blond curls on Aziraphale's fair head and plucked a wide brimmed straw hat from nowhere.  
  
Aziraphale had smiled up at him as he handed it over. "Thank you dear," he said, pressing it onto his head.  
  
"Trying to avoid a Cyprus incident," Crowley had replied, referring to an instance very early on when they realised angels _could _in fact get sunburned. He remembered Aziraphale’s bewildered expression, cross eyed as he tried to look down at the bright pink peeling strip across his nose, before Crowley miracled it new.  
  
Aziraphale was also buried in a book. Emily Brontë, which was as much of a 'beach read' as he got close to. He was squinting behind the pointless little glasses he'd unfolded, creasing the skin by his eyes.  
  
Crowley couldn't see that from where he was in the water, but he'd committed Aziraphale's face to memory. Especially his contented concentration face, although the addition of the bathing suit was new.  
  
As was the sight of Aziraphale's bare feet, which - after the angel's discovery of a certain pair of shoes he very much liked and decided to wear seemingly until they came back into fashion (that is, until the end of days. And possibly not even then) - had become a rather scarce sight.  
  
The nature of sand meant it went everywhere. If it was aiming for employee of the month down in hell, it’s only competition would be glitter. The sand then, had made its way between Aziraphale's toes, and he had spent a few seconds warring with himself before he gave in and accepted his fate. Even if he had miracled it all away immediately it would have been too late. He'd be finding sand in the lining of his coat for weeks.  
  
A particularly large wave pushed Crowley a little closer to the shore, and the deserted patch of beach they'd found themselves.  
  
That, unlike the weather, _was _their doing. As was the parking space Crowley had managed to find. Then again, EVERY free parking space was, ever since Crowley had invented the idea of paying for parking.

Aziraphale turned a page and cocked his head to one side, the hat sliding a little with the jaunty angle the wind had blown it. (They _were _in England. Heat _and _a calm day was too much of a miracle even for the one who had invented the word). The parasol that had found itself wedged in the sand waved a little at the edges. A lock of Crowley’s hair brushed across his forehead.

He shifted from laying on his back to languidly treading water, eyeing how much of the paperback was left, and whether the allure of finishing it would win over the call of ice cream; specifically, awful beachfront ice cream, all powder whipped with so much air and settled on such dry, cardboard cones it ceased to have any flavour. Even the flake, well, _flaked _like woodchips and sawdust. A _99_ was frankly a disgrace, and Aziraphale spent more time complaining about them than he did eating the things.

And eat them he did, they _both_ did, whenever they conveniently found themselves at the seaside. There was something to be said for tradition. They _could_ ask for luxury soft scoops and fruit juice lollies and gourmet flavours that tasted awful but looked good on a menu, but a beach rendezvous meant _99’s, _and all their cheap awfulness. They weren't even 99p, anymore.

Sometimes Crowley tried to think of the worst thing the humans had ever done, and he’d taken credit for. Sometimes he quite genuinely believed it to be the increased price of _99’s _(or _Freddos,_ or _Mars_ bars, or anything found in a corner shop for that matter). _£1.09’s_ just didn’t have the same ring.

Aziraphale of course frowned something awful about it. It was why they were so high on Crowley’s list.

But tradition, then, meant that as soon as Crowley had had enough of waiting, he’d drag Aziraphale off for an ice cream.

Crowley spun in a little circle in the water.

He eyed Aziraphale’s hand around the book, and spun another little circle to hide his involuntary blush. (Who he was hiding it from was a mystery. Aziraphale was paying rapt attention to his book; they had the beach to themselves. The only one watching had _always_ been watching, and had long since become accustomed to the depths of their ineptitude, general awkward incompetence, and inability to use their words). 

The thing about tradition, is that sometimes it was better being broken.

Crowley had been holding that hand earlier. (And it had been wonderful).

They'd taken a walk along the promenade, past the rows of beach huts and windswept seaside gardens, watching the roll of the sea against the shore.

That was usual.

They had walked close enough that sometimes their knuckles brushed against each other, a clumsy clash of bone, and neither said anything, and neither snatched their hand away. They let it happen. Again. And again. And again.

That was also usual.

Crowley had stepped over a dropped pile of fish and chips, and the hand not shoved in his pocket clashed against Aziraphale's. But when it swung away again, Aziraphale's little finger followed. Slowly, it slipped around Crowley's, until they were linked, an angel’s finger curled around a demon’s.

That was not usual. That was most certainly_ unusual_, positively _unlikely._

And yet. It was happening. Aziraphale's finger was right there, against Crowley's. He held onto it a little tighter, and kept walking, almost skidding on the fallen remains of a sandwich with how much he was _not_ fixated on the finger against his.

After a few more quiet steps Crowley risked a glance sideways, just as Aziraphale risked one back.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, because as the silver-tongued serpent of Eden who had managed to persuade Eve to temptation, he was incredibly eloquent.

He added a further squeeze of Aziraphale's little finger for good measure.

Aziraphale smiled shyly from under his lashes, ducking his head. He made an equally eloquent half shrug/snort/incomprehensible sound that _might_ have started as the beginning of a sentence, and pushed his hand further into Crowley's grip.

Crowley, of course, held it tightly.

And worried about whether his hand was clammy, because apparently that was the kind of thing you worried about, when holding someone's hand.

They walked onward, Crowley’s cold hand against Aziraphale’s warm one.

At one point Aziraphale shifted his fingers and Crowley immediately opened his palm, giving the angel room to unclasp his own, and go back to walking as normal.

No such thing happened. Aziraphale shifted his fingers the barest millimetre and resettled. Slowly, Crowley replaced his fingers.

Crowley had had a hand in his before. There had been numerous handshakes in his 6,000 years. He'd had _Aziraphale's _hand in his before – for two second bursts, or three – helping him up steps or over this and that.

Apparently the _context_ of holding his hand mattered to the quality of the experience. A lot.

Crowley never been more aware of his entire body; every inch of skin that was touching Aziraphale’s was tingling and sensitive, and he both wanted to move to alleviate it and stay as still as demonly possible.

With how much pressure was he meant to be squeezing Aziraphale? He didn't want to hurt him, but he didn't want to be too lax and accidentally _un_-hold hands. That seemed like something he’d manage to do.

Every other step or so their joint bundle would bump against one leg or another, or graze the edge of a jacket. Crowley found himself angling his hips away to prevent it, but then his arm was left stretching awkwardly.

That never happened to him. His limbs usually just...got where he wanted them, without much thought. Eventually. His legs in particular seemed found of a quick detour from the standard one-in-front-of-the-other route.

He was overthinking a walk down the promenade. His hand was most _definitely _clammy, (he'd decided it had to be, and was conspicuously rubbing his free hand down his jeans as if the other one would get the hint and dry up) and he was concentrating with his entire being on being _casual._

It was exhausting, trying to look relaxed.

And yet. He never wanted the walk to end. He'd keep on until they reached the sea and continue until they met France. (And then on to Germany, then....Poland? Austria? Azerbaijan? His geography was a bit spotty).

“Crowley!”

There was a sudden squeeze of his hand, and Crowley almost lurched forward into a puddle of melted chocolate ice cream, (or something rather more unsavoury. Crowley chose to believe it was ice cream).

He turned to see that they'd stopped by a shopfront rich with sticks of rock and bags of candyfloss. Aziraphale was staring at it delighted.

Aziraphale loved sticks of rock. More specifically, he was endlessly amused by the tiny writing and random pictures of flowers and lemons and once, bizarrely, lime green frogs the sticks had running all the way through them. Upon unwrapping a stick from its twist of cellophane there was bound to be an exclamation of _‘Oh look!’_ and _‘Isn’t it clever Crowley?’_ or _‘Is that a...frog?’._

Most of time Aziraphale didn’t even eat it, just slipped it into his pocket, to either be miracled someplace else when Aziraphale realised he needed that pocket for other more important things, like Rhubarb and Custards or _Werther’s Originals, _or be left there until he reached for a handkerchief and came back with a fistful of rock sticks instead.

Occasionally Crowley would find one in the footwell of the Bentley. He never threw them away, just added them to what he thought of as Aziraphale’s glovebox, with the rest of the things the angel dropped. Mostly pennies three decades out of circulation, the odd bent playing card he’d made disappear a lot better then he had meant to, and a spare pair of reading glasses he didn’t need, cracked across one lens, that he’d never wear again but Crowley kept, because he remembered how pleased Aziraphale looked when he had first showed them to him.

Aziraphale was gazing at the colourful display of sweets. He squeezed Crowley’s hand once more.

And then his hand was gone, as Aziraphale stepped away to peer at the mountain of rock.

Crowley looked at his hand, then shoved them both into his pockets, curling them into tight fists, the brush of his own nails not the same.

_Well that was…_he thought, and struggled to think of a word that quite encompassed it. He could hear Aziraphale enquiring about rock flavours beside him.

He stared at his feet and mentally replayed every second of the indescribable ten minutes of hand holding, mourning the loss of another ten minutes, or at least until they had made it to the pier. Maybe they could have walked like that down the entire length – and of course they’d have to come _back, _and then there was all that time actually on the beach. Crowley supposed that eventually they would have had to release each other to drive home again; getting in the car would have necessitated opening separate doors - though perhaps if he somehow clambered in first and avoided the gearstick shoving itself in unwanted places then -

“Oh.”

Crowley’s head jerked up at Aziraphale’s voice.

In one of Aziraphale’s hand was a stick of rock, striped a bright rainbow. He was blinking down at his other hand however, held out at an angle towards Crowley, hovering awkwardly in the air and dropping, little by little.

He caught Crowley’s eye and coughed, blushing and blustering. “…Sorry my dear, I – I just presumed -,”

Crowley stared stupidly, wondering why it looked like Aziraphale was…reaching for something.

Someone/where/when also stared, at her stupid creation, quite seriously considering divine intervention if a certain demon didn’t remove his stupid hand from his stupid pocket right that instant.

Crowley’s hand stayed where it was. Until, a precious millisecond later, his brain lurched back into higher function, and he understood that Aziraphale _was_ reaching for something.

For a hand that wasn’t there. 

His hand, specifically.

The one still in his pocket.

Crowley almost ripped the stitches on said pocket as he rushed to grab Aziraphale’s hand from where it had fallen back against his leg.

Aziraphale jumped and looked up, eyes wide and ears pink.

Crowley cleared his throat, crinkling his nose and scratching the back of his neck. He tried to explain what needed very little explanation – that he was an idiot. “I didn’t realise…it’s...I -,” he huffed, re-positioning his hand a little tighter.

“It’s just, I thought that – perhaps – that might have been a - a one-time thing, is all,” he finally stuttered out.

Aziraphale blinked. “I’d…rather it wasn’t,” he said.

“Neither. Good. That’s settled.”

They were still outside the shop. The owner was frowning at them and trying to gesture potential customers around the obstacle they made, just standing there.

“Come along then angel,” Crowley said softly, and they set off.

They continued on like before. Not _before_ before, when their knuckles barely bumped, but slightly-less before, where Crowley lost his already tenuous grasp of being Cool in Aziraphale’s presence, but gained those knuckles beneath the tentative sweep of his thumb.

They were silent for a little bit, until Aziraphale flashed his eyes to him and inhaled. “One more thing Crowley,” he started quietly, “my apologies but it appears my hand is rather...damp. Sorry.”

Crowley snorted in giddy disbelief. Aziraphale turned faintly reproachful eyes towards him. “Don’t laugh,”

“I’m not, angel, I’m not.”

Aziraphale looked like he didn’t quite believe him, so Crowley turned and smiled, until Aziraphale smiled back. They both looked away.

Crowley gazed out across the sea. It wasn’t blue. It was a slightly concerning grey-green. But the sun made it glitter, and in the right light it caught the reflection of the sky and could _almost _be blue.

“Fancy a swim?” he asked, and beside him, still clutching his stick of rock, Aziraphale followed his eye and emphatically did _not_ want to swim in that. At all.

Though he could be persuaded to read a book on the sand.

So they had made their way down to the beach, Aziraphale materialising a ridiculous bathing suit and Crowley an equally ridiculous hat, and even though they had had to stop holding hands Crowley consoled himself with the marvellous idea that they could just _start_ again. At any time they wanted.

Someone/where/when looked down on them and wondered how on earth they’d managed to live as long as they had, when that counted as a profound epiphany.

Aziraphale turned another page in his book. Crowley shook himself from the memory and stopped spinning himself in circles in the water. He watched the sun fall across Aziraphale’s knees and decided to give the angel a few more minutes before they went off for ice cream, thankful they could eat _not-quite-99’s_ one handed.

The other had a very important job.  


**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to the 99 lovers for the 99 bashing. Though for the record you are wrong.
> 
> Basically I took a trip to the beach and spent the whole time thinking up cute seaside scenarios for these two. This is the end result - I hope you like it :).
> 
> It also occurred to me at end of writing those lengthy paragraphs about rock that I had no idea if that was a thing elsewhere and tbh i'm still not sure after a quick googling so succinctly sorry if you have no idea what i'm going on about at any point??
> 
> Mistakes and just general awful storytelling are all my fault, and kudos and comments are always awesome!! Go wild if you so desire.


End file.
